A POEM INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF STAIR.

B E 't mine the honour once again to hear
And see the best of men for me appear;
I 'll proudly chant: be dumb, ye vulgar throng!
Stair bids me sing; to him these lays belong;
If he approves, who can condemn my song?

Of health I sing. — O health! my portion be,
And to old age I 'll sing, if bless'd by thee.
Blessing divine! Heaven's fairest gift to man!
Soul of his joys! and length'ner of his span!
His span of life preserv'd with panting breath,
Without thy presence proves a ling'ring death.

The victor kings may cause wide nations bow,
And half a globe with conqu'ring force subdue;
Bind princes to their axle-trees, and make
The wond'ring mob of staring mortals quake;
Erect triumphal arches, and obtain
The loud huzza from thousands in their train:
But if her sweetness balmy health denies,
Without delight pillars or Æneids rise.

Cosmelius may on silky quilts repose,
And have a num'rous change of finest clothes;
Box'd in his chair, he may be borne to dine
On ortolans, and sip fine Tokay wine:
His liver if an inflammation seize,
Or wasting lungs shall make him cough and wheeze,
No more he smiles; nor can his richest toys,
Or looking-glass, restore his wonted joys:
The rich brocade becomes a toilsome weight,
The brilliant gem offends his weakly sight;
Perfumes grow nauseous then, nor can he bear
Loud tuneful notes that us'd to charm his ear:
To please his taste the cook attempts in vain,
When now each former pleasure gives him pain.

Nor flowing bowls, loud laugh, or midnight freak,
Nor smutty tale, delight the roving rake;
When health forsakes him, all diversions tire;
There's nothing pleases, nothing can inspire
A blythsome smile; he shuns the shine of light,
And broken slumbers make a weary night.
If silent sleep attempt to bring him ease,
His watching fancy feels the whole disease:
He dreams a mountain lies upon his breast,
Or that he flies the fury of some beast:
Sees at vast distance, gushing from the rocks,
The cooling stream, while burning thirst provokes
Him, fainting, to climb up the craggy edge,
And drag his limbs thro' many a thorny hedge;
Hangs o'er a precipice, or sinks in waves;
And all the while he sweats, turns, starts, and raves.

How mad 's that man, push'd by his passions wild,
Who 's of his greatest happiness beguil'd;
Who seems, whate'er he says, by actions low,
To court disease, our pleasure's greatest foe!

From Paris, deeply skill'd in nice ragoos,
In oleos, salmagundies, and hogoes,
Montanus sends for cooks, that his large board
May all invented luxury afford:
Health 's never minded, while the appetite
Devours the spicy death with much delight.
Meantime, king Arthur's sav'ry knighted loin
Appears a clown, and 's not allow'd to join
The marinated smelt, and sturgeon jowls,
Soup-vermicell, sous'd turbot, cray, and soals,
Fowls a-la-daub, and omelet of eggs,
The smother'd coney, and bak'd paddocks legs,
Pullets a bisk, and orangedo pye,
The larded peacock, and the tarts de moy,
The collar'd veal, and pike in cassorole,
Pigs a-la-braise, the tansy and brusole;
With many a hundred costly-mingled dish,
Wherein the moiety of flesh or fish
Is wholly lost, and vitiate as the taste
Of them who eat the dangerous repast,
Until the feeble stomach's over-cramm'd,
The fibres weaken'd, and the blood enflam'd.
What aching heads, what spleen, and drowsy eyes,
From undigested crudities arise!
But when Montano's paunch is over-cloy'd,
The bagnio or emetic wine 's employ'd:
These he imagines methods the most sure,
After a surfeit, to complete a cure;
But never dreams how much the balm of life
Is wasted by this forc'd unnat'ral strife.
Thus pewter vessels must by scouring wear,
While plate, more free from dross, continues clear.
Long unconsum'd the oak can bear the beams,
Or lye for ages firm beneath the streams;
But when alternately the rain and rays
Now dash, then dry the plank, it soon decays.
Luxurious man! altho' thou 'rt blest with wealth,
Why should thou use it to destroy thy health?

Copy Mellantius, if you 'd learn the art
To feast your friends, and keep their souls alert;
One good substantial British dish, or two,
Which sweetly in their natural juices flow,
Only appear: and here no danger 's found
To tempt the appetite beyond its bound;
And you may eat, or not, as you incline;
And, as you please, drink water, beer, or wine.
Here hunger 's safe, and gratefully appeas'd,
The spleen 's forbid, and all the spirits rais'd,
And guests arise regal'd, refresh'd, and pleas'd.

Grumaldo views, from rais'd parterres around,
A thousand acres of fat furrow'd ground,
And all his own; but these no pleasure yield,
While spleen hangs as a fog o'er ev'ry field:
The lovely landscape clad with gilded corn,
The banks and meads which flow'rs and groves adorn,
No relish have; his envious sullen mind,
Still on the fret, complains his fate 's unkind:
Something he wants which always flies his reach,
Which makes him groan beneath his spreading beech.
When all of nature, silent, seem to shun
Their cares, and nod till the returning sun,
His envious thoughts forbid refreshing sleep,
And on the rack his hopeless wishes keep:
Fatigu'd and drumbly from the down he flies,
With skinny cheek, pale lips, and blood-run eyes.
Thus toil'd with lab'ring thoughts, he looks aghast,
And tasteless loaths the nourishing repast:
Meagre disease an easy passage finds,
Where joy 's debarr'd, in such corroded minds.
Such take no care the springs of life to save,
Neglect their health, and quickly fill a grave.

Unlike gay Myrtil, who, with cheerful air,
Less envious, tho' less rich, no slave to care,
Thinks what he has enough, and scorns to fret,
While he sees thousands less oblig'd to fate,
And oft'ner from his station casts his eye
On those below him, than on those more high:
Thus envy finds no access to his breast,
To sour his gen'rous joy, or break his rest.
He studies to do actions just and kind,
Which with the best reflections cheer the mind;
Which is the first preservative of health,
To be preferr'd to grandeur, pride, and wealth.
Let all who would pretend to common sense,
'Gainst pride and envy still be on defence;
Who love their health, nor would their joys control,
Let them ne'er nurse such furies in their soul.

Nor, wait on strolling Phimos to the stews,
Phimos, who by his livid colour shews
Him lade with vile diseases, which are fixt
Upon his bones, and with his vitals mixt.
Does that man wear the image of his God,
Who drives to death on such an ugly road?
Behold him clad like any bright bridegroom,
In richest labours of the British loom;
Embroider'd o'er with gold, whilst lace, or lawn,
Waves down his breast, and ruffles o'er his han',
Set off with art, while vilely he employs
In sinks of death, for low dear-purchas'd joys:
He grasps the blasted shadows of the fair,
Whose sickly look, vile breath, and falling hair,
The flagg'd embrace, and mercenary squeeze,
The tangs of guilt, and terrors of disease,
Might warn him to beware, if wild desire
Had not set all his thoughtless soul on fire.
O poor mistaken youth! to drain thy purse,
To gain the most malignant human curse!
Think on thy flannel, and mercurial dose,
And future pains, to save thy nerve and nose:
Think, heedless wight! how thy infected veins
May plague thee many a day with loathsome pains,
When the French foe his woeful way has made,
And all within his dire detachments laid;
There long may lurk, and, with destruction keen,
Do horrid havock ere the symptom 's seen,
But learn to dread the poisonous disease,
When heaviness and spleen thy spirits seize;
When feeble limbs to serve thee will decline,
And languid eyes no more with sparkles shine;
The roses from thy cheek will blasted fade,
And leave a dull complexion like the lead:
Then, then expect the terrible attack
Upon thy head, thy conduit, nose, and back;
Pains thro' thy shoulders, arms, and throat, and shins,
Will threaten death, and damp thee with thy sins.
How frightful is the loss, and the disgrace,
When it destroys the beauties of the face!
When the arch nose in rotten ruin lies,
And all the venom flames around the eyes;
When th' uvuia has got its mortal wound,
And tongue and lips form words without a sound;
When hair drops off, and bones corrupt and bare,
Through ulcerated tags of muscles stare!

But vain we sing instruction to his ear,
Who 's no more slave to reason than to fear;
Hurried by passion, and o'ercome with wine,
He rushes headlong on his vile design:
The nauseous bolus, and the bitter pill,
A month of spitting, and the surgeon's bill,
Are now forgot, whilst he — but here 'tis best
To let the curtain drop, and hide the rest
Of the coarse scene, too shocking for the sight
Of modest eyes and ears, that take delight
To hear with pleasure Urban's praises sung,
Urban the kind, the prudent, gay, and young;
Who moves a man, and wears a rosy smile,
That can the fairest of a heart beguile:
A virtuous love delights him with its grace,
Which soon he 'll find in Myra's lov'd embrace,
Enjoying health, with all its lovely train
Of joys, free from remorse, or shame, or pain.

But Talpo sighs with matrimonial cares,
His cheeks wear wrinkles, silver grow his hairs,
Before old age his health decays apace,
And very rarely smiles clear up his face.
Talpo 's a fool, there 's hardly help for that,
He scarcely knows himself what he 'd be at;
He 's avaricious to the last degree,
And thinks his wife and children make too free
With his dear idol; this creates his pain,
And breeds convulsions in his narrow brain.
He always startled at approaching fate,
And often jealous of his virtuous mate;
Is ever anxious, shuns his friends to save:
Thus soon he 'll fret himself into a grave;
There let him rot, worthless the muse's lays,
Who never read one poem in his days.

I sing to Marlus, Marlus who regards
The well-meant verse, and gen'rously rewards
The poet's care. Observe now, if you can,
Aught in his carriage does not speak the man:
To him his many a winter wedded wife
Appears the greatest solace of his life.
He views his offspring with indulgent love,
Who his superior conduct all approve.
Smooth glide his hours; at fifty he 's less old
Than some who have not half the number told.
The cheering glass he with right friends can share,
But shuns the deep debauch with cautious care.
His sleeps are sound, he sees the morning rise,
And lifts his face with pleasure to the skies,
And quaffs the health that 's borne on Zephyr's wings,
Or gushes from the rock in limpid springs.
From fragrant plains he gains the cheering smell,
While ruddy beams all distant dumps repel.
The whole of nature, to a mind thus turn'd,
Enjoying health, with sweetness seems adorn'd:
To him the whistling ploughman's artless tune,
The bleating flocks, the oxen's hollow crune,
The warbling notes of the small chirping throng,
Give more delight than the Italian song.
To him the cheapest dish of rural fare,
And water cool in place of wine more rare,
Shall prove a feast: on straw he 'll find more ease,
Than on the down even with the least disease.

Whoever 's tempted to transgress the line,
By moderation fix'd to enliv'ning wine,
View Macro, wasted long before his time,
Whose head, bow'd down, proclaims his liquid crime.
The purple dye, with ruby pimples mixt,
As witnesses upon his face are fixt.
A constant fever wastes his strength away,
And limbs enervate gradually decay;
The gout, and palsy, follow in the rear,
And make his being burdensome to bear:
His squeamish stomach loaths the savoury sey,
And nought but liquids now can find their way,
To animate his strength, which daily flies,
Till the young drunkard 's past all hope, and dies.

To practise what we preach, O goddess-born!
Assist thy slave, lest Bacchanalians scorn
Thy inspiration, if the tempting grape
Shall form the hollow eye and ideot gape.

But let no wretched misers, who repine,
And wish there were not such a juice as wine,
Imagine here that we are so profane
To think that Heav'n gave plenteous vines in vain:
No; since there 's plenty, cups may sparkling flow,
And we may drink till our rais'd spirits glow;
They will befriend our health, while cheerful rounds
Incline to mirth, and keep their proper bounds.
Fools should not drink, I own, who still wish more,
And know not when 'tis proper to give o'er.
Dear Britons, let no morning-drinks deceive
Your appetites, which else at noon would crave
Such proper aliments as can support,
At even your hearty bottle, health and sport.

Next view we sloth, (too oft the child of wealth,)
A seeming friend, but real foe to health.
Lethargus lolls his lazy hours away,
His eyes are drowsy, and his lips are blae;
His soft enfeebled hands supinely hing,
And shaking knees, unus'd, together cling:
Close by the fire his easy chair too stands,
In which all day he snotters, nods, and yawns.
Sometimes he 'll drone at piquet, hoping gain,
But you must deal his cards, that 's too much pain.
He speaks but seldom, puffs at ev'ry pause,
Words being a labour to his tongue and jaws:
Nor must his friends discourse above their breath,
For the least noise stounds thro' his ears like death.
He causes stop each cranny in his room,
And heaps on clothes, to save him from the rheum:
Free air he dreads as his most dangerous foe,
And trembles at the sight of ice or snow.
The warming-pan each night glows o'er his sheets,
Then he beneath a load of blankets sweats;
The which, instead of shutting, opes the door,
And lets in cold at each dilated pore.
Thus does the sluggard health and vigour waste,
With heavy indolence, till at the last,
Sciatic, jaundice, dropsy, or the stone,
Alternate makes the lazy lubbard groan.

But active Hilaris much rather loves,
With eager stride, to trace the wilds and groves;
To start the covey, or the bounding roe,
Or work destructive Reynard's overthrow:
The race delights him, horses are his care,
And a stout ambling pad his easiest chair.
Sometimes, to firm his nerves, he 'll plunge the deep,
And with expanded arms the billows sweep:
Then on the links, or in the estler walls,
He drives the gowff, or strikes the tennis-balls.
From ice with pleasure he can brush the snow,
And run rejoicing with his curling throw;
Or send the whizzing arrow from the string,
A manly game, which by itself I sing.
Thus cheerfully he 'll walk, ride, dance, or game,
Nor mind the northern blast, or southern flame.
East winds may blow, and sudden fogs may fall,
But his hale constitution's proof to all.
He knows no change of weather by a corn,
Nor minds the black, the blue, or ruddy morn.

Here let no youth, extravagantly given,
Who values neither gold, nor health, nor Heaven,
Think that our song encourages the crime
Of setting deep, or wasting too much time
On furious game, which makes the passions boil,
And the fair mean of health a weak'ning toil,
By violence excessive, or the pain,
Which ruin'd losers ever must sustain.

Our Hilaris despises wealth so won,
Nor does he love to be himself undone;
But from his sport can with a smile retire,
And warm his genius at Apollo's fire;
Find useful learning in th' inspired strains,
And bless the gen'rous poet for his pains.
Thus he by lit'rature and exercise
Improves his soul, and wards off each disease.

Health's op'ner foes we 've taken care to shew,
Which make diseases in full torrents flow:
But when these ills intrude, do what we will,
Then hope for health from Clerk's approved skill;
To such, well seen in nature's darker laws,
That for disorders can assign a cause;
Who know the virtues of salubrious plants,
And what each different constitution wants,
Apply for health — But shun the vagrant quack,
Who gulls the crowd with Andrew's comic clack:
Or him that charges gazettes with his bills,
His anodynes, elixirs, tinctures, pills,
Who rarely ever cures, but often kills.
Nor trust thy life to the old woman's charms,
Who binds with knotted tape thy legs or arms,
Which they pretend will purple fevers cool,
And thus impose on some believing fool.
When agues shake, or fevers raise a flame,
Let your physician be a man of fame,
Of well-known learning, and in good respect
For prudence, honour, and a mind erect:
Nor scrimply save from what's to merit due;
He saves your whole estate who succours you.

Be grateful, Britons, for your temp'rate beams,
Your fertile plains, green hills, and silver streams,
O'erclad with corn, with groves, and many a mead,
Where rise green heights, where herds in millions feed:
Here useful plenty mitigates our care,
And health with freshest sweets embalms the air.

Upon those shores, where months of circling rays
Glance feebly on the snow, and frozen bays;
Where, wrapt in fur, the starving Lapland brood
Scarce keep the cold from curdling of their blood;
Here meagre want in all its pinching forms,
Combin'd with lengthen'd night and bleakest storms,
To combat joyful health and calm repose,
Which from an equal warmth and plenty flows.

Yet rather, O great Ruler of the day!
Bear me to Weygate, or to Hudson's Bay,
Than scorch me on those dry and blasted plains,
Where rays direct inflame the boiling veins
Of gloomy negroes, who 're oblig'd to breathe
A thicken'd air, with pestilential death;
Where range out o'er th' inhospitable wastes,
The hunger-edg'd and fierce devouring beasts;
Where serpents crawl which sure destruction bring,
Or in th' envenom'd tooth or forked sting;
Where fleeting sands ne'er yield t' industrious toil,
The golden sheaf, or plants for wine and oil:
Health must be here a stranger, where the rage
Of fev'rish beams forbids a lengthen'd age.

Ye Dutch! enjoy your dams, your bulwarks boast,
And war with Neptune for a sandy coast,
Whilst frighted by these deep tumultuous powers,
You scarce dare sleep in your subaqueous bowers:
Raise high your beds, and shun your croaking frogs,
And battle with tobacco-smoke your fogs;
Soak on your stoves, with spirits charge your veins,
To ward off agues and rheumatic pains.

Let the proud Spaniard strut on naked hills,
And vainly trace the plain for crystal rills.
Starve on a sallad or a garlic head,
Pray for his daily roots, not daily bread;
Be sour, and jealous of his friend and wife,
Till want and spleen cut short his thread of life.

Whilst we on our auspicious island find
Whate'er can please the sense or cheer the mind.
Blest queen of isles! with a devout regard,
Allow me to kneel down and kiss thy sward,
Thy flow'ry sward, and offer Heav'n a vow,
Which gratitude and love to thee make due;
If e'er I from thy healthful limits stray,
Or by a wish, or word, a thought betray
Against thy int'rest or thy fair renown,
May never Daphne furnish me a crown;
Nor may the first-rate judges of our isle
Or read, or on my blythsome numbers smile.

Thalia here, sweet as the light, retir'd,
Commanding me to sing what she 'd inspir'd,
And never mind the glooming critics bray:
The song was her's — she spoke — and I obey.